


Strawberry

by MissAdlock



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, F/M, LOVE THAT FOR US, Lana Del Rey Vibes, PIV, Penis In Vagina Sex, Smut, Star Wars Modern AU, The Mandalorian (TV) Season 2, The Mandalorian (TV) Spoilers, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Will add more tags as I go, an aesthetically pleasing fanfic, call me by your name without the without the pedophilia, cottagecore af, din has a huge dick its canon, farm life, fruit with sex????, it works don't worry, love to see it, modern!din is a babe, reader is kind of a manic pixie girl tbh and i love it, smuuuuuuuuuuuutttttty, strawberry fields forever, usage of daddy (i know)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28709595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissAdlock/pseuds/MissAdlock
Summary: Every summer you work on your father's strawberry farm with your three sisters. It's a way to take a break from the big city but summers in the Midwest are hot and they linger. This year, your father's old and mysterious friend shows up to stay on your land for a reason yet to be determined. Din Djarin seems dangerous, but kind enough, and the two of you quickly become...well, let's fact it...smitten.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 49
Kudos: 195





	1. Strawberry Fields Forever

**Author's Note:**

> Reader is well over eighteen for obvious reasons. I won't ever go into physical detail about the reader's appearance because we include everyone. This fic is pretty much a mix between Pride & Prejudice and Call Me By Your Name except without the und*rage crap we do not condone. So, without further ado, here's an aesthetically pleasing fanfic.

__

**_The moment Din Djarin laid eyes on you he knew he was a dead man._ **

At first, his view of you had been obstructed because you'd opened every door and window in the house. June in the Midwest sometimes required such nuisances, so all of the curtains billowing in the breeze prevented him from looking upon you.

You were also on the couch, but he hadn't known that until you lifted a hand - soft as a dove's - from the back of the sofa. You played with the light between your fingers, shielding its dazzling rays from your eyes, just before setting it down again. Your hands were so small (smaller than his anyway) and gentle. He imagined how foreign your skin would feel in warm contrast to his; how your fingers would feel intertwined with his calloused ones, which had done enough work throughout the years to be mistaken for a beggar’s. Within the first moment, he saw you as flawless.

Your father had not stopped for breath since Din arrived, lamenting about the farm or discussing the layout of the home with an eagerness Din had yet to match. He _would've_ initially been interested in the history of the farm or how many sprawling acres rolled endlessly before them, but his eyes couldn't leave your hand.

You must've been asleep - napping in the embrace of the sun - because as soon as your father drew breath upon entering the living room, your voice tickled Din's ears for the first time. Sweet as music.

_"Dad? Is that you?"_

Din couldn't help but blink at the sound of your voice. it seemed unnatural, like one hears in dreams or spiritual awakenings. He manages to compose himself at your father's side, straightening his posture to err on the side of caution.

Your father exclaims with a joyful " _ah!_ " and then introduces you by name.

"My daughter. One of them, anyway. She and the two eldest help during the summer," he had said, and then turned to the bay windows to go on about the view.

But you meet Din's eyes, rested and glimmering with curiosity, while your father droned on in the background. You reach out a hand - the one he'd thought of holding - to shake.

He does. And it's every bit as beautiful as he knew it'd be.

"How do you do?" you give him a polite and pretty smile. If he hadn't known any better, you bat your eyelashes for good measure.

Your father's tour continues but Din can't stop thinking about the way your skirt rose to your thighs as you stretched awake.

* * *

_You were lying if you said you didn't think about him for the rest of the day._

You weren't the only one. Your sisters - the both of them - had also met the mysterious Din Djarin.

"Who is he?" Charlotte asked while you congregated at the nearby pond. It was a lovely place, nestled within the thick of the woods and bursting with greenery. Flowers of every kind blossomed around you and scents the air with a sweetness.

Rhea focuses on the canvas before her, the delicate lines she's been intricately painting colored with pastel tones. "One of dad's old friends," she says mindlessly.

"But why is he _here_?" Charlotte urges.

"I heard he got into some trouble with the law and now he's in hiding." Rhea taps the paint brush against her jar of water; it makes a dull, but ringing noise.

You roll your eyes with a scoff, lounging in the grass and watching the clouds in the bright, blue sky. "Rhea, that's absurd."

Rhea (who is the oldest and most pragmatic) surprises you when she shrugs her shoulders. "I don't know. He _looks_ like a bad boy..."

You recall the way his jaw clenched as you introduced yourself - his neck was tempting. His skin glowed with a radiant hue in the sunlight and his eyes shone with an aura of broodiness. He was very Austenian.

"Boy is hardly the word," you correct.

Charlotte, being the flirt, wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. She swims in the pond, hair wet and fanning against the water. She sinks lowly for dramatic effect. "How right you are."

"Trouble or not, he was a perfect gentleman." Rhea sighs. "Either way, he's easy on the eyes so I don't mind having him around."

_Easy on the eyes_ was putting it mildly. You wouldn't say that to the girls though; they had a habit of teasing when you showed interest in anyone attainable let alone a man decades older than you.

Charlotte spins around in the water and humming to herself as though she's diagramming a scheme. "Don't do anything stupid, Charlotte." Rhea dips her paintbrush into her mason jar full of pond water.

Charlotte huffs and flips her hair from her shoulder. It makes a splash, rippling the water as a result. "Why not? We're all of legal age."

"He's dad's friend and a _guest_ ," you remind her, tearing your gaze away from the clouds.

The middle child lets out a pathetic whimper. "You guys are no fun," she groans.

* * *

It was a busy season on the farm.

Strawberries were ready to be picked by mid June and there was a three week window to do it. Harvesting wasn't easy and it took a lot of man work. Hands went numb, skin grew calloused. The sun that beat down on the fields was only manageable by the sprinklers that went off every blessed-ed fifteen minutes. During a drought, it was even worse.

The employees picked from seven in the morning until five in the evening. Your father was adamant that breaks be plenty and pay be as prosperous as he could afford, but a strawberry farm wasn't a fortune five hundred company. He did what he could to provide the families with some semblance worthy enough to continue, and so every year he threw a dinner party.

It was always a lovely occasion, brimming with delectable treats and savory entrees. Candles were aflame, lanterns lit up the pathway that lead to the entrance of the home and then the land leading into the woods. As a child, the dinner party was as exciting as a birthday. It was a night to look forward to all year long, sharing time with family and friends and gorging yourself on food you wouldn't eat any other Friday of the week.

Your sisters loved it too, mostly because they enjoyed the promise of gossip that poured from the mouths of guests like the wine served. And now that Din Djarin - a stranger, in all respects of the word - was attending an annual dinner that's managed to keep as tradition for years, gossip would surely be abundant as the wine itself.

Guests arrived by the hour until the clock struck seven. The evening was crisp but warm enough to be comfortable without a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. The rock doves sung loudly to declare that sunset had begun, a few rogue and early lightning bugs blinking rhythmically. Children of the employees ran throughout the fields bare footed and chanting taunts to their friends as their parents chattered among themselves.

Home. Here is home.

While the party had already begun (officially, at least), dinner hadn't yet been served. Admittingly, you were a bit behind schedule, but you worked quickly to finish setting the tables. The theme was simple; linen napkins and wildflowers in random antique vases you found in the basement. The lilacs you'd picked from their bushes were already beginning to limp but you hoped no one would notice.

You hum when you work. Whether it be intentional or not you find your lips buzzing with a tune plucked subconsciously from your brain as your hands busy themselves. You straighten the tablecloths, fill the vases with water, and set the silverware in their particular order. Needless to say, you had a tendency to get lost in your own little world. So when a hand gently tapped you on the shoulder, you spun around with a shriek.

Din Djarin - man of the hour - is smirking handsomely at you, hands fiddling with a depressed looking lilac. You place a palm against your heart and count its beats. Too many.

"Mister Djarin," you sigh out. "You scared me."

He lets out a breathy chuckle, hands running through his wavy locks. "I see that. I'm sorry, but I was just wondering if you'd like some help."

His voice...oh, stars and garters. It was so rough but tender - like a steak. You cock an eyebrow at how strange the comparison is but convince yourself it didn't matter. Still, you're blushing from the jump so you duck your head from his gaze.

"There's not much left to do," you admit, turning back to the table. You spread your hands against the tablecloth to ward off any wrinkles. "You can double check if I missed any forks, I suppose. I have a tendency to do that."

Din hums in his throat and nods a little. "Sure," he says, moving to the first setting. His eyes scan along the silverware carefully. "Where are your sisters? They don't help, huh?"

"They're better at entertaining," you say truthfully. "I volunteer to take care of the dinner part...as long as I don't have to socialize as much I'm content."

It was true. It's not that you had an aversion to people in general, but you tried to avoid conversation whenever possible - it wasn't your strong suit. You could get away with it when need be but you found it took too much energy to pretend to enjoy conversation about the weather or politics.

"I understand," Din nods. He straightens a spoon with the nudge of his finger. "I find myself to be the same way."

There's an awkward silence between the two of you. You didn't know how to respond. While you weren't good at social situations in general, you found it natural to feign interest in subjects bland enough to circumvent discomfort...but you felt the need to impress him.

"So you'll be staying with us this summer then?" you decide, falling short. _How stupid._

Din nods swiftly. "Yeah. In one of the cabins."

The cabins were located at various points of the land your father owned. In order to get there, one usually took an ATV or walked if the going gets tough. You preferred to stroll along the river, but your sisters liked riding the four wheelers or their bikes.

"Which one?" you ask, tone mindless.

Din's finished with double checking your work. He pulls out a chair - an old, wooden antique - and sits down upon it with caution. You stifle a laugh and, if he notices, he doesn't say anything. He'd soon learn that everything here was old but sturdier than they looked. You wish you could say it was for aesthetic purposes but it was more convenient than anything.

"The one closest to the pond," Din replies lowly.

You notice how his eyes survey your form and how _intimate_ it was. He was studying you but for whatever reason you couldn't be sure. You try to shake away the idea that he could be (dare you say?) _pining_ over you. How silly. Like you told Charlotte: Din Djarin was off limits.

That was the end of it.

You find yourself blushing again so you hide your face. "That's my favorite one," you tell him honestly. "I like the view."

Din smiles in agreement. "So do I."

If you weren't so heated with frustration, you would've called him out on the implication (as out of character for you it may be). Then again, you found yourself weakened by the mere presence of this man. It wasn't unlike you, per say; you were naturally timid but there was an eagerness to his charm that you weren't familiar with. Guys your age were so sure of themselves but it was almost always under false pretenses. This man however...well, he was a _man_ and that was intimidating.

Fine. It was hot.

You clear your throat in an effort to regain a semblance of poise. This summer had already proven to be laborious in a way you hadn't expected.


	2. Sundaes and Princes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slight mention of blood due to a small accident. Din being princely. The usual.

**Dinner was loud, as expected, which made it difficult for you to hear the guest sitting beside you.**

You’d been zoning out ever since Din’s eyes met yours from across the table. He’d been kind enough to listen to a woman named Dima who was known to be a bit of chatterbox. She meant well, but most of the time she spoke it was about her family or her dog which had a tendency to put anyone sucked into her trap into “rest mode”. Nevertheless, Din listened carefully and nodded when nods were appropriate and smiled when smiles were pertinent. The man was pleasantly charming, grin faint but with affable disposition. It wasn’t any wonder when those around him continued to ask questions about himself, to which he answered with vague reserve.

While dinner was entertaining enough, it lagged on more than you’d anticipated. The roast was tender and well-seasoned, simmering with heat, and the company praised your culinary skills with hearty acclamation. Afterwards, the guests separated into their respectable groups, jubilant conversations echoing about the yard. Your sisters were busy amongst their own crowds with faces familiar since childhood, letting out a chorus of laughter whenever someone said something amusing. They were your confidants as well, but you were so distracted by the mess left behind that you couldn’t help but start tidying it up.

It wasn’t long until Rhea set her hand atop your own while you reach for a dirtied plate. She gave you that look she bore when she felt you were doing too much, eyes heavy with exasperation at the idea you’d even considered cleaning at a time like this. You pause and smile feebly at her, a little guilty.

“We can do that later.” She takes the plate from your grasp, setting it back down a little more forcibly than you’d like. “Enjoy the party. Grab a sundae at the bar - it was your idea to set it up.”

You glance at the setup near the house. An ice cream station with dozens of toppings and syrups beckons you temptingly.

You sigh and pat her hand. “Alright,” you murmur in defeat. “Do you want one?”

“Sure, I’ll take one.” She links her arm within yours and places a kiss on your cheek.

The two of you go a little crazy with the ice cream. You’ve piled it high with chocolate and vanilla scoops, decorating it with colorful sprinkles, and dousing it in raspberry syrup. Rhea decides on plain vanilla with chocolate curls.

“You know…” she begins, voice a bit too playful in its caution. “I saw him looking at you.”

You freeze, like the ice cream, but shake your head. So you _hadn’t_ imagined it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is it such a strange idea that a man might be interested in you?” she proposes, placing a long-handled spoon in both of your glasses.

“Yes,” you reply with a small, bolshie laugh.

She says your name in pest. “You’re beautiful and sweet. Charlie once called you _enchanting_.”

Charlie was a childhood friend - like most of them. He was also bestowed the nickname "Charming Charlie” and it wasn’t just because he was blond, handsome, and had the reputation of a Casanova. Charlie complimented everybody - especially women.

You remind her of this with a scoff as the two of you sit on a log beside the river. The water laps gently against the banks, rippling slightly from the hop of a bullfrog in the distance.

“Charlie may be charming, but he doesn’t lie.” Rhea takes a spoonful of her ice cream and then rolls her eyes in ecstasy at the sweetness. “This was the best decision I’ve made tonight.”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed Tommy giving you bedroom eyes throughout the entirety of dinner,” you clap back. You also moan in rapture at the taste.

Rhea blushes in the moonlight. “Don’t change the subject.”

Tommy was your favorite of Rhea’s many endeavors (she had a bit of reputation in town). The tall, brunette was a hockey player with freckles splattered along the bridge of his nose. You’d been interested in him first, but as soon as you saw how quickly the two of them hit it off, your attraction to him fizzled. He was a hockey player which was admittingly one of the reasons why you found him so appealing. Rhea felt the same way. The two of them have been inseparable ever since his first college game.

A millisecond before a quip can escape your lips, Charlotte comes bounding down the beaten path, long legs skipping with ease and hair swaying behind her.

“Come join us, you hermits!” she titters blissfully, obviously tipsy on wine. That’s what you deduce anyway; she preferred red rather than hard liquor. You couldn’t relate. “Come drink with me!”

Both you and Rhea exchange a look but it’s in good-humor.

“I see you’ve already started!” Rhea yells across the distance.

Charlotte blows a playful raspberry. “It’s no fun being drunk without you guys.” She gesticulates with a wag of her finger. “Come _ooooon_! They’re playing Elton!”

This piques your interest. She knew the king of rock n’ pop would convince you to dance badly which is exactly what the alcohol was for.

Rhea pursues her lips and cocks an eyebrow at you. “I think that’s a great idea,” she says suspiciously.

You didn’t trust her tone, but when you heard the beginning rift of _Saturday Night’s Alright (For Fighting)_ blast loudly from the distant speakers, you were possessed.

“Alright,” you laugh as Charlotte grips your hand and drags you backwards.

The three of you giggle in the night.

* * *

You didn’t drink very often, but you did it enough to know not to wear a sundress while doing so.

In your defense, you hadn’t known you’d be drinking tonight - or this heavily, anyway. You wanted to be sober enough to be aware of any stupid ideas that may creep in your head in the event you ogled over Din long enough. Drunk you was _not_ sober you.

 _Drunk_ you was a flirt. But not just any kind of flirt - a tease. And no matter how much you may or may not have caught Din Djarin’s attention, he didn’t deserve to have debauched eyes - clouded with drink - making him feel any sense of discomfort.

But dammit, he’d been drinking too.

How much you couldn’t be sure, but he had nursed at least two glasses of whiskey at the bonfire. He sipped slowly, relishing in it, and wise enough to know it was dangerous to scarf it down. You tried to convince yourself that it was okay to be this irresponsible while throwing back your third shot of vodka. After all, you were in your twenties and could hold your alcohol better than your sisters. Life was too short, youth was too fleeting…all of that bullshit your elders had lied about.

Sir Elton John certainly didn’t help, nor did Freddie Mercury. By the time _Don’t Stop Me Now_ began to play, you were spinning in circles with Charlotte, head thrown back in whimsical laughter, and stumbling upon the ground. The two of you laid back - despite the dirt - and held your bellies in order to settle the maniacal chuckling.

Your sundress might’ve been too short for such ruckus but you couldn’t find yourself caring. No one was looking anyway, right? A breeze lifted the hem and you shrieked playfully. Charlotte is startled by the sudden gasp. She lets out a throaty chortle.

“You’re such a sloppy drunk,” she accuses, but slurring all the same.

“Am not,” you protest in a faux whine, but giggles edge the corner of your voice.

The two of you continue to volley insults back and forth, all in good fun of course, before Charlie and Tommy hover above you with quizzled, but humored brows. They were handsome, but unfortunately not enough to distract you from the way Din kept throwing swift glimpses at your pathetic display. His intense features loosened when he found you joking, albeit drunkenly, with friends.

Rhea joins the group and leans her head on Tommy’s chest, apparently brave enough to admit something to herself. “Let’s play hide and seek,” she suggests, words a little rushed and lazy.

Tommy and Charlie were both as intoxicated, but they try harder than you girls to pretend otherwise. They shrug at one another, interested in the idea, though Tommy may have been catering to Rhea’s pleads.

“Alright, bet.” Tommy presses a kiss to Rhea’s forehead. “I’ll be seeker.”

“Rules?” you ask, attempting to get up from the ground and failing miserably. Charlotte takes your hand, clumsily pulling you to your feet. You knock yourself against her. The two of you almost topple to the ground again but she steadies herself with you in her arms.

“The pond is as far as you can go,” Charlie interjects. He motions to the willow tree in the center of the back yard. “That’s the counting place.”

The five of you agree enthusiastically, separating from one another like a football team does before their play.

It might have been strange (even reckless) to someone in the east - or west - to take part in such a game in the dead of night. After all, the moon was your only source of light in the woods, its beams illuminating the thicket and branches with a faint glow. But in the Midwest, such games were a rite of passage. Forests were to be memorized, danger to be reckoned with. Hide and seek in these conditions were elementary.

By the time Tommy starts counting in a sonic boom, you’ve already begun sprinting in the woods. You were somewhat aimless in your pursuit, eyes frantically searching for a hiding spot worthy enough to be considered. You were the master at hide and seek - always have been. It once took Charlotte an hour to find you and, when she did, she caught you wedged between a rack of clothes in the basement closet. You had a reputation to uphold.

But, alas, vodka was stronger than your sense of pride. While running through the entanglement of abundant undergrowth, you lost your footing and tripped over - what you can only guess - a shrub riddled with thorns.

“ _Jesus Christ_!” you scream, immediately grabbing hold of your foot to inspect the damage. It was enough to sober you up to squint through the darkness. Why the _fuck_ hadn’t you worn shoes?

You can’t see the thorn - the night is too thick with darkness. You curse again just as loud as the first time in attempt to gain someone’s attention. You weren’t terribly far from the house, so you prayed to the gods that your cries of help would be heard.

Because, much to your chagrin, you couldn’t walk.

You did try but it proved fruitless because of the thorn. You realized how stupid that was because it pushed in further. _God damn this drunkenness_ , you whine internally.

A rustling of leaves startles you. You decide this was the end - you’d die in the middle of the forest you once trusted with your life. You’ve accepted the gory fact that your father would find your body mangled by the paws of a coyote in the morning.

“I don’t wanna die a virgin,” you moan tearfully.

A heavy voice full of worriment slices through the darkness. “Let me see,” he says.

_Oh no. Oh no. Oh no, no, no._

Din Djarin leans down upon his knees, taking your foot in a gentle fashion, before squinting at the damage. His fingers prod carefully against the arch, wiggling something foreign from the meat of your skin. You squeak pathetically at the intrusion, shifting away from his makeshift surgery. Finally, he pulls out the thorn and holds it up to the light of the moon.

“A rose thorn,” he confirms. You watch as a hint of blood glistens against the lunar rays. He smiles tenderly and then presses the pad of his thumb to the wound. “You’ll be alright.”

You gulp, all drunkenness suddenly scrambling your thoughts like eggs. Instead of thanking him like a normal human being you can only mumble, “I can’t walk.”

Din allows a full bodied smile and your heart skips a beat. He is princely and it takes everything in your pie-eyed body to stop from saying it.

“Grab a hold of my shoulders,” he instructs, leaning down a bit more so you can reach. You do so, very hesitantly, because there’s no way in Hades he’ll be able to carry you.

But Din is full of surprises. He lifts you almost effortlessly as you’re slung bridal style against his chest. _You must be joking._

With your arms wrapped around his neck, you gaze softly into his eyes. It’s hard to see them, but you’re close enough to watch as his pupils dilate, mouths almost pressing against one another. Gods, you want to kiss him. You really do, but the very little percentage of your brain sober enough to reason with you decides against it. You’d regret it in the morning.

“Thank you,” is what you meekly say.

His stare is a bit more serious now…but not in an icy way. _No_. He looked…just as Charlie once said… _enchanted_. His lips part just slightly, considering his next move, but then falls short. He nods in chaste before turning towards the break of the woods.

This was bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr! | astrumapricus


	3. Knightly Behavior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you a doctor, Mister Djarin?" | "No. And you can call me Din."

**You looked upon him in a way that no one had ever looked upon him before.**

And it was strange, he thought, because the two of you had been introduced not even twenty-four hours prior. But in your eyes was a subtle enchantment that made Din forget the misfortunes that brought him to the farm in the first place. 

You smile politely at him, albeit a bit drunkenly, as he mends your wound. Your foot is propped against his thigh as you sit prettily upon the bathroom counter. Your eyes shine, cheeks rosy with alcohol and adrenaline. The thorn had been removed, but the cut still bled enough to upset Din. When you flinch at the peroxide, he himself grimaces as though he can empathize with your pain.

“I’m surprised I felt it at all,” you say to him as though you’re sheepish from the fall. “With all the vodka and whatnot.”

Din meets your gaze and catches himself staring at your petal-like lips. He forces himself to look away, as much as it burned, but he was far too concerned with your feelings at the gesture.

There was no way you could look at a man such as him the way he looked at you.

Din places a Band-Aid on your foot, sealing it gently, and inspects it once more. “This is a tender part of the body,” he says. He finds himself squeezing you gently in a show of affection he had not expected. He swallows before adding, “I would be concerned if you didn’t.”

A flash of mischief crosses your face before you tease. “Are you a doctor, Mister Djarin?”

He finds himself chuckling lowly at the question. His answer was quite the opposite, but you needn’t know the true nature of his lot in life. If possible, he’d avoid being transparent in that regard for as long as fate allowed.

“No,” Din finds himself saying. “And you can call me Din.”

A bold choice, but you embrace it with a gentle smile. “My father always told me to refer to my elders with their respective titles.”

You were funny. Witty. Charming to the last. Din found himself growing more fond of you with each passing moment; even in your disheveled state did he think you beautiful.

He mustn’t become attached. You could very easily become ammunition if he weren’t careful. In his pursuit of sound welfare, you had almost become something of a villain; you were making it increasingly difficult to focus on protecting his own interests. In just a few hours, Din felt an unwarranted dedication to you.

He wasn’t comfortable with it.

But he didn’t know how to stop it.

Those of Mandalorian creed did not devote themselves to anyone outside of the order. They hunt and they seek – they survive. And to be senselessly bewitched by someone of such (what he would’ve once considered) little importance was preposterous.

Nonsensical.

Din hadn’t ever been irrational before. Everything was calculated.

Not anymore.

Din tries not to grin, but he can’t bear it. His body is traitorous. “Funny,” he quips. He releases your foot.

You remain silent for a moment, formulating thoughts of whatever it was celestial beings like you did in quietude.

“How did you and my father meet?” you ask after what felt like eons of stillness. “He hasn’t told us very much.”

Din starts to clean up the medical supplies – bits of paper from the Band-Aid and the hydrogen peroxide he had so carefully dabbed upon your skin.

He falters for a moment. While what he was about to say was the truth, it felt dirty. There was more to your father’s past than what you’d have believed and Din knew it wasn’t his place to expose any of it; he would have tread carefully.

“We met when we were teenagers,” he replies.

You let out a messy giggle – like it caught even yourself off guard. You place a hand against your mouth as though to cover the goofy smile. “So when dinosaurs ruled the Earth, then.”

The age-gap hadn’t been lost on Din.

He opens the cabinet very carefully to avoid bumping your head with it. The bathroom was in older shape compared to the rest of the house, so it came as no surprise when the mirror rattled loudly as it opened.

“I was the one who carried you to safety, remember?” Din meets your eyes, hoping you’d find the humor in them.

You do.

“Yes,” you boff. The twitter that escapes your mouth causes his heart to jump to his throat. “And now you’re mending me after a vicious rose bush attack.”

He cracks a grin, though slyly to avoid sharing any bemusement due to your jesting lip. He couldn’t help it; your devilment was far too pleasant to make him scornful.

“Thank you,” you add meekly, but you’re smiling and it’s more than enough gratitude he required.

He wishes to see you smile all the time.

Din’s placed both hands against the counter, consciously ignorant of the space between the two of you. He meant no harm by it – was simply leaning against the sturdiness of the tile. But as you watch him, there was a sense of longing Din hadn’t beheld in quite some time. He tries to avoid it – whatever it may be – by tearing his gaze away from yours and pushing himself off with a casual grunt.

You blink when he separates himself from you, eyes fluttering a bit carelessly, and expression computing back to its neutralness. He does the same, brows raising in panic at the sensation.

“We met while I was camping in Michigan – the UP.” He scratches the back of his head and leans against the wall with arms crossed.

Anything to look complacent.

He finds himself engrossed by the way your ankles cross over one another and how your legs swing. Your dress had threatened to expose the more fragile parts of you, but you were of sound enough mind to eschew that from happening. Had that occurred, Din would’ve punished himself for looking. He wasn’t a religious man by any means, but what was that verse in the Christian bible again? “ _And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life with one eye, rather than having two eyes to be cast into hell fire_.”

Faith didn’t belong in his repertoire, but that particular verse was commonsensical enough to recite.

Over and over again, apparently.

“So you’re from around here then?” you inquire.

“You know that people can visit the Midwest, right?” he remarks.

He was certain you’d simper mockingly – and sure enough, you do. “You’re very bratty for an old man.”

Din takes pride in guessing your responses; it must mean something.

Before he returns, he allows himself to laugh. It’s not full-bodied, but it’s some of the most genuine laughter he’s been able to conjure in quite some time.

“I’m from Chile,” he answers, perfectly amused by your bantering. “I moved here when I was a child.”

He watches as your fingers tap against the tile of the counter. They were well manicured, but cut short, and he guessed that was because you worked with your hands. He respected that – admired it. You clearly come from humble background and trialing youth.

Din could relate to that.

And yet you’re still soft, kind – gracious in your endeavors. And he was not. He was clinical, meticulous in the frayed edges of an odyssey he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue anymore. The two of you were snow and flame, and the old wife’s tale certainly wasn’t true. Opposites don’t attract. Opposites – the grunting, savage neanderthal of the two – are attracted. Someone ripened with softness such as yourself would surely never take rapture in a Neolithic man.

He could dream, of course. And he will.

“That’s very impressive,” you hum, chin raised in speculation.

Din furrows his brows, arms linking themselves around his frame tighter than before. It brought himself a semblance of comfort. For almost all his life, Din was the hunter and never the prey. He was large, foreboding enough to exude the kind of energy the average man could only theorize about, and yet here he stood…before you…

Feeling like the bounty he sought.

“Interesting to have been born in Chile?” he taunts.

Your brows crinkle, nose wiggling a bit to avoid showing your doubtful speculation. It wasn’t a look of disgust – Din was convinced you could never find fault in anyone. Maybe not even him. He hoped for this, anyway.

“No,” you reply. “To be able to keep that information from everyone.”

He shrugs, right brow arching in a show of faux derision. “Who said I was keeping it?” he all but drawled.

Something in his tone must’ve engaged your interest. Maybe you could see right through him; Din couldn’t find himself dumbfounded by the idea. You were smart enough to content with in a war of wit.

He notices how you head tilts in measured consideration. “You’re a very interesting man, Mister Djarin,” you whisper.

A heat flushes him from head to boot. He tears his fixation from the way your eyes swallow him whole – like a boa constrictor might do to a mouse. But he feels no fear for his safety – just his survival.

Because you were going to make this very difficult for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he's adorable, right?


	4. Two Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mention of vomiting, hangovers, and freshwater fish?

At breakfast, Rhea is mending her hangover by cracking a raw egg into her orange juice. The sight of it makes you sick but it’s an old family ailment that seemed to work wonders. Nevertheless, when she offers you the concoction, you pass with a shaky wave of your hand. The shining sun that dazzled its way through the panes of glass was more than enough to make you ill.

Your father tears a bite off his burnt bacon (one of his more questionable preferences in food) and waves the stiff pork in your direction. “By the looks of it, it’s a good thing it’s Saturday.” He’s smiling, despite the joke. You can’t help but narrow your eyes at him.

“So…” your father continues, eyes bright with a healthy shine. He was always able to hold his liquor well, even in his old age. You hope that one day you could say the same. “What’s on the agenda for the day?”

The idea of doing anything but laying in bed before a box fan makes you shiver with sickness. “Sleep,” you answer, the sound muffled by your face in your hands; your head was threatening to fall into your eggs otherwise.

Charlotte nods in agreement, but then groans in pain when doing it too quickly. You sense a wave of sympathetic nausea bubble in the back of your throat like acid. She was worse off than you or Rhea who – while not as tolerant to spirits as your father – were capable of avoiding a panic attack after a heavy night of drinking. Charlotte kept you up all night from the toilet the two of you shared, her nightgown pooled upon the tile floor as she knelt over the porcelain bowl. You held her hair out of her face and brushed the loose strands that dangled in her eyes. When her stomach had been emptied of all contents, you fetched her a cool washcloth and placed it over her forehead, and then made sure she fell asleep on her side to avoid from choking in her sleep.

She squeaks out “hydrate” in response to your father’s question and then takes a sip of her water as a point.

Rhea is poking at her breakfast with a pair of glazed-over eyes and dried, crusted lips. Her hair was in disarray, cheeks sullen from lack of color. She shut down when suffering from a hangover – or any illness for that matter. Her giant t-shirt swallowed her whole, the sleeves threatening to dip in the yolk of the egg, but she didn’t pay any attention to it.

Your father begins to form his next words but falls short when the front door opens. The sound of the screen banging shut echoes throughout the home against the backdrop of clinking silverware and the morning song of birds. All four of you perk at the foreign sound – even Rhea lifts her eyes to watch as Din walks through the archway of the sun room.

“Ah! Din! Come join us!” your father exclaims all too loudly. The three of you girls gasp at the noise and massage your temples in unison.

Din notices and resists the urge to grin – you can tell by the way his full mouth twitches just slightly, but he’s too much of a gentleman to let his amusement show. He looks well rested; skin glowing in the sunlight as it soaks upon him, dark eyes swimming with hearty verdure. You wish you could say the same, especially considering the pathetic ache to impress him at all costs. With heavy bags beneath your sunken eyes and trembling fingers (which is surely your body reacting to the withdrawal), you can only imagine how sickly and how – let’s face it – _ugly_ you looked.

After last night, the golden-hazed memory of him tending to your wound kept replaying in your head repeatedly; the way his fingers nimbly prodded against the puncture within the delicate arch of your foot, how he massaged your heel with the gentleness only a lover might do with their partner. It felt intimate – foreign but welcome all the same. And yet, for some reason, it was – in all honesty – _irritating_. Irritating because it could never be more than a man playing nurse and feeling sorry for the drunken woman before him.

You sink a bit in your chair when he rounds the table. “I already ate. But I would like some coffee if you have some,” he says, eyes finding yours from across the room. You quickly look away when his gaze meets yours and find yourself blushing under his scrutiny.

You hope he would forgive you and your sisters for his entering without so much as a simple “morning”, but you expect he understood given the current situation. You offer him a weak and small smile and pray it doesn’t feel too desperate, but he responds by allowing a subtle grin grace his lips before your father guides him to the kitchen.

* * *

By lunchtime, you and your sisters feel well enough to swim in the pond. You’ve brought a picnic basket full of sandwiches and a punnet of strawberries from the field along with a few cans of sparkling soda. A quilt you sewed as a child lay ragged on the ground, the few pillows Rhea had brought in tow cushion your heads as you stare at the sky.

Charlotte blindly tunes the radio you kept for the sole purpose of picnics until she decides upon the throwback station. You didn’t recognize the song, but you enjoyed it enough to stop from protesting she change it. Rhea must’ve known it because she’s perfectly humming along, taking nibbles at the strawberry she’s been nursing for at least five minutes.

“You never told us what happened with Mister Djarin last night,” Charlotte says, eyes closed and basking in the afternoon sun. It bounces off her, making her form look angelic - and she was.

“There isn’t much to tell,” you admit. And it was the truth. Nothing epic had happened, aside from the briefest of touches that stole your heartbeat, but that went without saying; the girls expect that much. You were known for being something of a hopeless romantic.

So it _is_ surprising when you aren’t eager to dish out more details for their hungry hearts to consume. Your sisters lived for moments like these; romantic encounters often wound their nerves until it sparked a jealousy so strong it inspired them to call on boys long forgotten. Clearly Din had aroused your interest…among other parts of you. Why hadn’t you been chomping at the bit to tell them even the most mundane of details?

Because you were cautious of getting your hopes up – whatever those hopes may be.

The girls exchange a secret glance – they had a language you could never understand, but that was okay so long as it pertained to you. Rhea rolls over on her stomach and Charlotte brings a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. They’ve given up at their prodding you for now.

“Let’s go swimming,” Rhea suggests. She stretches herself into a yoga pose you can’t remember the name of while standing, long legs like redwood trees. She’s wearing a swimsuit – a one piece with strawberries printed on it.

You opted for a two piece. It was one of your favorite vintage items – a suit from the fifties that Marilyn Monroe might’ve worn if it hadn’t been more frilly than sexy. The baby blue highlighted your skin, glimmering with just the faintest of sweat. It was also one of your most difficult pieces because, while it was your favorite swimsuit, the top was a bit snug and had a tendency to require manual and covert situating. Needless to say, you only wore it around your sisters.

“Sounds great,” you tell her. The sun was becoming unbearably hot, the midwestern summer fulfilling its very purpose. The willow trees could only shelter you so much from the heat.

Your sister races towards the ancient, but sturdy, swing that hovers above the calm waters – all the while laughing.

* * *

Din needed to pick up a few things from the local convenience store. Anthony suggested he take his daughters – at least one of them – so that they can socialize with civilians. Din agreed because he liked the girls enough to spend time with them; he found them interesting. A glow of melancholy surrounded them like a forgotten memory and he found that comforting and admirable.

But he particularly wished to see you – to spend time with you. Last night, while mending your injury, wasn’t enough. He wanted to know everything he possibly could about you; your favorite color (he guessed green because it looks pretty against your skin) or your favorite song (he’s found that it says a lot about a person). When did you have your first kiss? Who was the first boy you loved? Or maybe girl? Who _were_ you?

He tossed and turned all night thinking about all of the men and women who were hunting him. Memories of decrepit towns and violent standoffs haunted his very psyche every time he closed his eyes. He was prepared for a long night because he was used to that - he was _used_ to the nightmares and the vicious faces that stalled them.

And then he remembered your laughter. Your cherried face, alight with the night’s pleasantries and the cheap vodka. He recalled the way you brushed a loose strand of hair from your eyes and tucked behind your ear and how badly he wanted to reach out and do it for you. You might’ve let him, given the way you licked your plumped lips upon glancing at him through those doe-eyed lashes. He _wanted_ you. He wanted you _bad_.

He would resist. He would resist for you because he came with too much baggage – baggage that was explosive and ticking like a bomb. Each and every moment he hid away from his past in these green plains was just another blessed day. He wouldn’t risk putting you in danger simply because he was…what was it? Not in lust. No. It _was_ more than that but it wasn’t love. You, to put it simply, enchanted him.

Anthony points Din in the general direction of the pond. Apparently the three of you visited as often as you could, even staying until the very dead of night. Din liked that and he didn’t know why – maybe it was because he never had the luxury of growing up with siblings.

Din knows he’s found the pond when he hears a singsong jest that sounds like Charlotte. He prides himself on already familiarizing your voices because he usually wasn’t very good at that. As he draws closer, there’s a screech and a playful, but panicked, plea coming from within the curtain of willow trees. It feels wrong to enter this place – like he’s walking upon sacred ground that he wasn’t worthy of trodding upon. He clears his throat to announce his arrival and the chittering stops. A pause lingers in the air and then there’s whispering, the splashing of water interrupting the backdrop of Bob Dylan from an ancient radio.

Charlotte – a dear thing – separates a slight opening in the willow trees. She peeks at him, mouth in a thin line as though to stop from laughing.

“Why hello Mister Djarin!” she greets a little too loudly. Behind her is a rushed and vague string of garbling. A heavier splash of water sounds from the pond, frantic and tense whispering among what he assumes is you and Rhea.

“Din, please.” He smiles kindly at her and she nods quickly and a little jittery.

Charlotte seems eager to block Din’s view of the girls, which is fine because he didn’t want to intrude on their privacy in the first place. But he _is_ interested when Rhea mutters, “Calm down! I’ll find it!” in a voice that only an older sibling can conjure.

“What can I help you with?” Charlotte asks, words a little rushed, but amused all the same.

Din scratches at the back of his head – something of a nervous habit, though he doesn’t understand what he’s nervous _about_. “I was going to stop into town. Your father – _I_ was wondering if anyone of you would like to go with me.”

Charlotte nods again, mouth slightly open and eyes brimming with, what seems like, an idea. “Well, Rhea and I are busy later but I’m sure our sister would love to go. She’s quite fond of the market downtown.” She glances behind her shoulder nervously.

Din tenses a little at the idea of being alone with you. He wanted it – he did – but it suddenly felt daunting. He’d surely make a fool of himself; say the wrong thing and offend her or make her feel uncomfortable if she caught him inadvertently staring at her. Nonetheless, he smiles in agreement.

“That sounds great,” he says clumsily. “I’ll leave in about an hour. If you could just let her…”

Din is interrupted when a hysterical squall comes from the pond. His blood turns to ice.

It was you.

“ _Dogfish! Dogfish_!” you cry out with a piercing scream. “ _Rhea_!”

Rhea screams too, and when Charlotte turns around to witness the commotion, Din watches as you scuttle for the swimsuit top that’s floating away.

“Hurry up, Rhea! They have _teeth_!” you shriek, diving for the shore.

Din knew a thing or two about dogfish – growing up around the lakes and whatnot. And you were right; dogfish did have teeth but you more than likely frightened it away with all your paddling. Still, he felt terrible for you as you crawled upon the shore, swimsuit top barely covering your breasts as you heave with trembling breath.

Din quickly looks away as you sit up; the top around your torso has skewed a little so that the side of your breast shone, the plushness of your skin spilling over the cups just slightly. The way your lungs worked from the exertion, the way the droplets of water cascaded between the valley of your chest…it was too much.

“I’ll go.” Din lifts a hand just slightly - a little wobbly. “Pass on the message?” He’s already walking away.

Charlotte releases a giggle she’d been holding with an amused strain as he leaves. “Oh my god,” he hears her say. “He saw you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr! : astrumapricus


	5. Zeus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter. Enjoy! I didn't proofread.

**It began to rain as Din exited the farm.** Your father had thrown a pair of ancient keys his way and said, " _Take Bessie. She could use the fresh air._ " And, of course, 'Ole Bess - a 1950's Ford, rusted with paint probably mixed with lead - proved loyal even as mud caked her tires.

You lounge in the passenger's seat, feet propped against the dashboard, and chewing Bazooka Bubblegum with a quiet pop. You stare at your shoes with a grimace as Din rounds a corner. You shouldn't have worn your white Keds today. They were your favorite - stitched with red thread to look like baseballs - but you hadn't known it would storm today. In the meteorologist's defense, it came on quite suddenly (as most midwest storms do). The clouds rolled in with a darkness reserved for tornados and other annoying natural disasters. You didn't feel like dealing with a twister today, especially given the fact that you hadn't cleaned the shelter since last May; there were definitely wolf spiders down there.

The rattling heater - as though it's groaning - blows faintly against you. The temperature had dropped a few degrees, though that wasn't uncommon during summer thunderstorms. Din was clenching the wheel - white knuckles and all - as you lean to turn off the mumble of the ancient radio. You'd originally tuned its dial to check the weather, but nothing exciting had come up since. Besides, you enjoyed listening to the tapping of rain upon the hood of a car. These were the little pleasures of home - ones you especially missed in New York where the air is gritty with pollution and the rain almost acidic.

"Guess we can't go to the market today," you sigh, twiddling your fingers and checking for dirt under your nails.

Din passes one of the many farms scattered across the heartland. The grass was like emerald from the rain - a sea of green that danced gracefully in the wind. You turn your gaze to the distant cattle munching their lunch and all sorrows are forgotten. You smile at the cows as their fuzzy ears whip away flies as a reflex. _Jersey cows_ , if you recall correctly. They'd always been your favorite but your father knew how costly livestock is. Despite how often you complained growing up, your tantrums had never been satisfied. Your dad settled on a dog he'd gotten at the pound. _Chief_ was his name - an old bloodhound with floppy ears and a tremendous amount of drool.

"That's too bad," Din replies lowly and breaking apart your scattered thoughts; you were miles away. "I was curious to see what they had."

As the cows pass from view, the frown returns. You purse your lips and debate on what to say - anything to sound mysterious or alluring - but you fall short as usual. The rain pattering against the roof is pleasant, but nowhere near distracting enough to calm your nerves.

Din Djarin was too intimidating. He was kind, of course, and his personality was warm. He paid close attention to your incessant rambling and didn't seem to mind the way you laughed too loudly at people's jokes. In a perfect world, you wonder if Din might even be attracted to this _cute_ likeness of yours. But this wasn't a perfect world. This was the midwest in the early summer and the rain was only beginning.

There is no backseat in Bessie - she's a two person pickup suited for hard work and nothing more. The space between the two of you is fairly limited but you make sure to keep your distance. The two of you exchange conversation about the vendors and bountiful produce that you could've purchased had it not been for the storm. He asked questions about your studies in botany (your major) and who you'd like to work for in the future (you hadn't decided). When you inquired about his line of work, he changed the subject as quickly as possible and focused on your sisters. He dances clumsily around the subject of your mother; he knows of her passing, he had said, and then left it at that out of respect.

Needless to say, it had been a good trip. It became easier to spend time with him in such close proximity - alone, at that - after crossing the railroad tracks.

The convenience store in town is run by an elderly husband and wife who always treat their customers with a hospitality you never experience in New York. The shop is warm, snug, and smelled like the saltwater taffy that lined the east wall. Din had grabbed some disposable razors while you stocked up on junk food for movie night with your sisters. Three bags of hot fries, a box of Swiss Cake Rolls, and a liter of Coke later, you feel satisfied (and a little guilty) enough to check out.

Joanne - conch white hair and all - checks Din out with a constant smile like she would with any regular. After cheerfully thanking him for his business, she sends the two of you on your way.

Outside, the awning above the store has collected a copious amount of water. The rain was getting heavier now, thunder growling in the distance like the gods were waring in the heavens. But Din looks up at the sky with a small grin as though he were welcoming back an old friend. You can't help but admire the slope of his nose and the relief he exuded when his shoulders loosened. He seems to be at peace which in turn causes the anxiety in your chest to soften.

You nudge him on the arm. "You like the rain, huh?"

Din has to tilt his chin downwards to reply. The height difference between the two of you is considerable. "I've been staying in Arizona for the past year." He inhales the freshness of the air, eyes closing in rapture. "It's been awhile since I've seen rain."

This makes you smile. You admire a man who enjoys the simple things in life, even if that simplicity was all too common here. You're reminded that Din had grown up in the midwest; he knew how much of a blessing rain could be. How it watered the crops, how it cleaned the air of toxins...hell, muddy puddles even entertained children enough for mothers to have breaks.

But while mud was fine and dandy for kids, you'd also worn the wrong shoes for weather like this. You sigh, staring at the various potholes filled with grimy water, and mourn the pearl white canvas of your Keds.

Din turns his attention from the clouds above to you once again. "What is it?"

You feel silly for complaining but you couldn't afford new clothes very often - even if those clothes came from Goodwill. They'd been priced at six dollars which had been a lot for a thrift store anyway. And by the state of the undersides, you were also lucky enough to find that they hadn't ever been worn. Keds like this weren't made anymore. They were, in all honestly, one of your favorite possessions.

"Didn't think my shoes through..." you stare at your feet and then at the puddle again.

And idea strikes you like the lightning above the clouds. It was probably stupid and a little dramatic. Who knew how many rusted pieces of metal lay upon the road? But you weren't about to ruin these shoes. Not in the slightest.

You kneel and begin to unlace the shoestrings. They quickly become undone before you wiggle your toes, heel edging off the sidewalk.

Din shakes his head and shifts the bags in his grasp. "Please be careful," he all but groans.

You smile sweetly at him, flattered by his concern. "The road isn't busy."

Din watches with caution as you glance both ways before crossing the street. It takes only a few seconds, all sign of traffic cleared, before you start a brisk walk. The pavement is rough against your feet and you shriek pathetically when something slimy squelches between your toes. Mud, of course.

You make it in one piece and Din is quick to open the door for you. "I could've brought the truck around," he says. He steps over a pothole that had accumulated with water, some gasoline mixing in it to create a filmy residue.

The soles of your feet are coated in a thin layer of clay now, dirtied from the damp asphalt. You slide in the passenger seat, dress soaked, and wetting the cracked leather. You make a point to dust off the arch of your foot and then shiver as Din starts the truck.

As he pulls into the intersection, Din attempts to resist the urge to smile. He seems amused by your wild appearance which made sense. Your hair was frizzed from the slight humidity thickening the air and it probably looked ridiculous. He can't help but release a humored chuckle after denying himself for a moment.

You laugh too.

* * *

Din was also soaked to the bone but he didn't look anywhere near as beautiful as you.

It took everything in his mortal strength to stop from peeking at your breasts and crashing 'Ole Bess. Your sundress wasn't white but it was pale enough to tease that the color of your bra was baby pink. He really did try to avoid doing that. _Really_.

But then you roll down the window (literally, as there were no parts of Bessie that were automatic) and sit upon your knees. You poke your head out into the sopping air like a dog does when going for a drive. Your dress has lifted just slightly, the cotton and lace of your panties teasing him like some sort of siren song materialized. It's enough to cause him to choke, but he manages to seem complacent enough to still be considered a gentleman.

He wants so badly to reach out and touch you. Maybe it was the rain; after all, they say summer storms tend to bring out a more feral instinct. Din wasn't sure why they did. Maybe it was because you smelled better - like the rain was complimenting your natural scent. He wishes he could caress the soft skin of your upper thighs, could pull you by the arm into his side and kiss you with one hand on the wheel.

Gods. This was the most trialing and abusive quest of self control.

You pop back into place, cheeks blushed with a petal pink hue. Your eyes were bright and wide - the color of your irises had been enhanced by the atmosphere. It makes him all the more frustrated. And just when he thinks he might have a hold on this - on the temptation of pulling the car to the side of the road and kissing you breathless - you break the silence.

"Have you ever swam in the rain?" you ask him, a little shyly.

Oh. This was a _request_.

Din freezes, blacking out a bit, and then comes to when he remembers he's in control of a two ton vehicle. He bobs his head up and down, wordless and throat dry with nervosity; _it burned like hellfire._ If you couldn't understand his energy then you must've been blind. He shouldn't say what he's about to allow to stumble out of his mouth. You were his friend's daughter - the youngest, no less.

But you wait for him to answer, looking a little embarrassed. He blows out a heady breath and is a little jaded by reality.

Still. He answers.

And that's how he found himself striding next to you on the way to the sacred pond. Eventually, you take his hand - which fit into his as though you were foreordained - and increase your speed with raring eagerness. The two of you jump over twigs and fallen, rotting logs bedraggled from the storm. You giggle when the thunder shouts from overhead, but Din was certain you knew when danger was near. He'd teased you about impaling yourself on another thorn, but you manage to exit the undergrowth unscathed.

You spread the lush branches of the willows so that he can enter. He feels like a vampire that needs permission to be welcomed into a home - like he was some sort of devil and you were some sort of christened virgin he was about to ruin by his mere presence. But then he's faced with the glorious, rippling pond concealed from the dangers of the outer world. Trees of various species shelter the perimeter, bending lowly by the weight of their own overgrowth. Dangling from an ancient oak is an unstable swing held together by a simple boat rope.

Din is speechless to say the very least. He expected the pond to be pretty but not so aesthetical in the way it proved. It was comparable to something out of a fairy tale or paintings crafted by artists in the eighteenth century. Din has traveled to almost every surface on the globe; he's become intimate with hidden waterfalls and pure springs, but this was different.

This is where you were raised. And that makes it the most beautiful place on Earth.

You pay no attention to his ogling, but instead begin to wade into the shallow end - dress and all. Din realizes with a start that he's about to see you completely drenched and he's expected to...watch? Like some sort of creep?

He wishes he could say it was surprising when you wave to him. "Come on!" you coax. You bend your knees and walk like a crab once you're waist deep.

Din shrugs, hands collapsing at his sides for dramatics in attempt to look relaxed. _He's not_. "I don't think wet jeans are..."

He could swim just fine in jeans. He's done it dozens of times on dangerous missions under the surface of angry, oceanic waters. If he were honest, he was just looking for a way out of this spellbinding nightmare. He wanted to join you; he wanted to coast beside you with relieved muscles and rested eyes. But he had a feeling he'd be anything but still so close to your submerged body.

You scoff. "Oh, please. Just take them off!"

Din raises an eyebrow. "What?"

You resist the urge to giggle - he can see it in your face even from this distance. "It's not like I've never seen a man in boxers before.

For some reason this sparks a jealousy within him and it feels like toxins eating away at the butterflies. He raises his chin, sighs in defeat, and then unzips his pants with a shake of his head. When he's slipped them down to his ankles, he can't help but gauge your reaction which is...somewhat flushed and...coy?

Suddenly, he's never been so nervous to be exposed in front of a woman. He was, quite literally, about to tread in dangerous waters.

Against his better judgement (you had a habit of scaring off the angel on his shoulder), he steps into the water but keeps a considerable distance from you. Din collapses gently beneath the surface, focusing on the music the rain droplets make along the face of the water. It's cathartic. When he rises, he's shocked to see you've closed the space between you. He almost chokes because of it.

"This was one of my favorite things to do growing up," you confide, stepping next to him and staring at the sky. More thunder growls, but there is still no sign of lightning. "To come out here and swim in the rain all by myself...it's wonderful."

Din can't help but stare as you reveal more mysteries. He wouldn't ever get tired of it - you deserved to be listened to.

He nods in agreement, also watching the clouds roll by, though they accumulate with every passing moment. 

He notices that your breath trembles. "Thank you again...for last night," you say, scooting closer.

Magnetism. And just like the Theory of Relativity, it causes him to move closer as well; to collapse like a dying star under the weight of your eyes. Your skin glows from the freshwater, droplets of the purest rain dotting your cheeks and the bridge of your nose. You are the event horizon.

And now he was trembling too.

"Of course," he breathes nervously.

There is a desperate sparkle in your eyes - a beg, a plea. And he couldn't ignore that. Not when he'd been denying it himself.

Fuck it.

He takes your hand from beneath the blackened waters - callousness against the smoothest of skin he's ever felt - and presses you against him. Your lips barely glide above his and he shudders, feeling every intake of your breath, ever imperfection in your lungs. The intimacy is unreal. It's almost too much.

He says your name quietly - it's barely audible - as he tilts his forehead against yours. He won't commit to a kiss until you consent. He wanted that. He wanted you to want him back.

"Mister Djarin," you smile full-bodied, lids still fluttering. You're leaning in.

Now. Now is the time.

Except...it isn't.

Apparently the gods have other plans. Lightning crackles across the firmament like a live wire had ruptured from its own casing. Din quickly pulls away to perceive the dangerous and how far away the electricity had shook the Earth. He wasn't taking any chances to put you in harm's way; even if that meant deferring - what would've probably been - a spiritual experience.

You've already seen the threat and you've begun to swim to shore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support and feedback on this story, guys. It means so much. :-)


	6. A Dove’s Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t proofread this because I am exhausted lol

Sundays meant that you made breakfast. 

When your mother died, you wanted to keep her memory alive in any way you could. The two of you would prepare breakfast with one another almost every weekend, the melodies that sung from the radio filling the gaps between the blender and your laughter. She made the greatest blueberry pancakes; they were  perfect . And no matter how often you’d watched her make them, the legendary flapjacks had not been satisfactory since she passed. Whatever it was she did with the batter had been lost between the lines of her messy cursive recipe. You’d even experimented a little; some nutmeg, a few sprinkles of ginger, almond extract, and even soy milk. But nothing had come close to the way it tasted when she made it. It was your Everest. Your Moby Dick. And you made it a point to tackle that big fish every Sunday morning.

Charlotte and Rhea were still asleep by the time you were elbow deep in pancake batter. Raw egg had dried against the red and white gingham apron and the bun against your head was hanging lopsided from the exertion it took to bake. The ancient radio on top of the hoosier cabinet was humming softly, the sound of robins tweeting so loudly that they drowned out the noise. But it was no matter; when you bake, you regain a focus that no other activity can compete with. Measurements must be made, liquids must be poured, eggs must be counted. It was a multifaceted distraction, but a distraction nonetheless.

So when the screen door slams, you hadn’t even heard it. You were fixating on the batter consistency, theorizing that maybe it was the texture that was to blame for the improper taste. As you scrape the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula, a pair of heavy footsteps fall upon the kitchen floor.

“Good morning,” says a sweet voice.

It’s like warm brown butter and sends butterflies flapping their ticklish wings in your belly. You turn a bit too hastily for your liking but smile brightly at him nonetheless.

“Good morning!” Your hands pause, but you grip the spatula like a life buoy.

Din leans against the door frame, damaged from years of happy childhood and extensive use. He’s wearing a pair of dark, worn jeans and a plain white t-shirt. It was incredibly frustrating how salivating he looked in something so basic. His eyes were wide with rest, the color in them sparkling in the morning sun.

If you still had an appendix you were certain it’d be the first to burst by the sheer strength it took to resist him. And then he cracks a grin which doesn’t help in the slightest. He crosses his arms against his chest, the strength of them toned enough to piss you off, actually; you have to look away for a second.

“What are you doing?” he asks you, head cocking to the side. A small ringlet falls against the crest of his brow and you resist the urge - as impossible as it may be - to tuck it back into place.

You clear your throat and turn back to the mess against the table. Flour has dusted the surface at least half an inch and baking tools lay in every which direction; doing the dishes afterwards would surely take an hour.

“Baking pancakes,” you tell him, a brightness like the sun in your voice. “I do it every Sunday.”

Din nods. “Is that so?” He’s holding back laughter - you just know it.

You glance at him again, pausing in your dishevelment. “What?” Your voice squeaks pathetically.

But he smirks again and you relax your shoulders. “It just looks like this is the first time you’ve ever baked in your life.” He nods at the apron you wear, soiled by almost every ingredient in your pantry.

You release a bit of nervous laughter. “Do I look that silly?”

Din steps forward, though with hesitation. He seems to be weighing the ramifications if he got too close. He shucks off his boots - the kind made for rugged work - and decides to glide next to you. You’re pleased he does, secretly rejoicing that his skin was so close to yours.

He turns his gaze to you and then, very swiftly, dips his finger into the batter like a defiant child.

You swat his hand with a giggle as he brings the raw batter to his lips. “Din!”

He chokes on his laughter, licking the remains and raising his brows as though he’s impressed. “This is really good,” he commends.

You shake your head with a smirk, blushing by the way he cleans off his finger. You knew exactly what he was doing and...you couldn’t decide how you felt about it. You usually settled these matters with your head - not your heart - despite how badly you wished you could. It didn’t seem reasonable and you had a low self-esteem. No matter how many compliments you received - no matter how many times Charlie called you enchanting - you couldn’t bring yourself to believe any of it.

But Din gazes upon you like no one had ever done before. He invokes a sensation within you; and it wasn’t just physical, but insensible. Was it possible to distance yourself from him? He pulled you in by a red thread - his body was magnetic. His spirit was confusing, his story untold. But he was...

...nirvanic.

His eyes follow your expression, which was surely unintelligible. There were far too many thoughts clouding your mind; they were surely blossoming a shade of red upon your cheeks as a result.

“You okay?” he asks, concern evident. His dismay was always appropriate, but authentic. He cared for you. _Worried_ for you.

You nod a little, flushed and heated with arousal. “Yes. I’m fine.” You raise your chin with courage, prepared to face him with titillating response.

Din smirks, but with closed lips. It’s handsome; it’s remarkable. You wished to kiss those lips - the lips you’ve dreamt of since his arrival. You imagine he was a talented kisser - he _had_ to be.

“You look flushed,” he murmurs, bringing a hand to your cheek. His thumb rubs a circle against it and you shiver, spine tingling with an itch only he could scratch. His embrace is gentle in every way possible; he touches you as though you’ll break.

It’s hypnotic, this feeling. You can’t help but fixate on his mouth, eyes crossing a bit by the distance closing in. He hovers over you, hand still cradling your cheek like one would hold an egg.

“A second chance?” he whispers.

You smile sweetly, eyes meeting his pupils, which have grown to a considerable size.

You’re proud of that.

“I dreamt it would be,” you say, voice just as quiet as his.

His forehead leans upon yours and you bump your nose against his. And just as he leans in, delicious mouth just centimeters from yours, a jolly voice rings from the next room. He exhales with a gruffness you hadn’t expected, sweet breath warming your lips. He’s irritated by the interruption.

Good.

Din pulls away at lightning speed, hands softly pushing your hips to separate himself from you. You whimper, frowning, but relieved that you’d been alerted.

It’s your father obviously. He wakes before anyone in the family and takes a walk in the briskness of dawn. When he saunters into the kitchen he smiles widely at the two of you, unsuspecting and oblivious to the tension in the room.

“Well! Good morning!”

* * *

You keep your distance from him for the rest of the day, distracting yourself by swimming at the pond with your sisters. Tonight was movie night and you were looking forward to it enough that Din’s absence was bearable...though just slightly. You’d made the choice to avoid him, concerned that you might’ve been too clingy and that he’d loose interest because of it. That was your MO - the chase. Sometimes it worked.

Sometimes.

The day was scorching, sun baking your skin and even the the blades of grass beneath your bare feet. The only relief was the water and even it was warmer than usual. It had to have been in the nineties but you’d been expecting that. Midwestern summers could be just as much of a sauna as Arizona or down south. You didn’t mind. You enjoyed the dry heat as long as there was a body of water nearby to fizzle the heat from your body.

“Jesus Christ,” Rhea groans, floating dead-man style upon the surface of the water. A lily pad grazes her mermaid-like hair. “It’s so fucking hot.”

Charlotte nods weakly in agreement, splashing her face with water. Ripples are created as a result, bobbing you gently beside her. “If I could be naked all day I would.”

You were hardly listening. You thought of Din and the sweat that must’ve been dampening his shirt. It should’ve grossed you out - sweat usually did - but ever since seeing him soaked to the bone yesterday, the image hadn’t vanished from your parched mind.

And then a licentious thought is manifested against your will. The idea of him bare and bathed in perspiration as he thrusts into you, the delicacy of your body beneath his, glistening the same. Your eyes widen, a little embarrassed, and suddenly concerned your sisters have developed the sudden power of telepathy. You busy your hands by squirting the water with your fingers at Charlotte. She doesn’t even squeal, grateful for the coolness against her face.

“I want ice cream,” you announce. “We should go to Scoops.”

The two of them raise their brows in excitement. Beneath the water, Charlotte wiggles a little with glee. _Scoops_ was her favorite place in the world. The shop was small, a renovated farmhouse with a bright interior and freezing enough to forget about any and all recollections of the scorching sun. To be honest, _Scoops_ had to have been your favorite place too; there was nothing like a waffle cone and Superman ice cream.

“That sounds great, actually.” Rhea starts for the banks. “Let’s go. Really. For the love of God, let’s cool down.”

You and Charlotte follow close behind, racing one another with a pathetic speed. She wins, of course, and then says with a pretty smile, “I think we should invite Mister Djarin.”

* * *

You’d been ignoring him all day.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit, but he couldn’t blame you for doing so. He’d been waiting for this - for the epilogue; he just prayed it wouldn’t be so soon. Maybe you realized how foolish he was or how reckless he could be. Maybe he was too shrouded in mystery, unable to talk about his past, and you took it as unwillingness. He wanted to confide in you, to open himself up like he was on a slab. But he _couldn’t_.

It wasn’t just because it was dangerous. It was also because he couldn’t bear the thought of you fearing him, of discovering how many lives he’s taken, and how many laws he’s broken. No. He wouldn’t let you see him in that dim light. 

He couldn’t bring himself to.

But when he’s invited by the three of you for ice cream, he feels a sense of consolation. He offers to drive Bessie in case you decide to make another stop. His heart stutters when you leap at the chance to sit in the passenger’s seat of the truck. 

You’ve propped your feet upon the dashboard just like you had yesterday, the very same baseball keds laced upon your feet. Today you had chosen an outfit that might incapacitate him by stroke. It was a pretty thing, all white, all cotton. The skirt was tighter than your usual getup and stopped at your navel. The square necked top exposed the softness of your collarbones, eyelet lace allowing tiny peeks of your skin. He gulps, trying to focus on the road, but can’t help to glance at you every so often.

You roll down the window and then lean against the back of the seat, hair whirling around you. _You were angelic._

He wondered...if he reached for your hand, would you pull away? If he pressed a kiss to your wrist, would you sneer at him? What if he simply held it? Gods, he felt like a teenager all over again. Maybe that was a good thing. After all, he hadn’t been one in decades.

And then a miracle happens.

Without opening your eyes, your small hand brushes against his that rests upon the center console. 

And then you tangle your fingers with his.

He stops breathing.

He turns to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating your touch. The contrast of texture is unbelievable; he hadn’t wove his fingers with a woman since...well, he couldn’t remember when.

A spark of confidence (or maybe stupidity, depending on your reaction) ignites in his stomach. He decides to chance it. He lifts the back of your palm to his lips and presses them against you with a gentleness he didn’t know was possible. Your skin is flawless, soft as a dove’s wings. 

He never wanted to let go. And if this were a dream, he begged every deity that he wouldn’t wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never expected this fic to get such love. Thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr! | astrumapricus


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